Mouth pressed to her neck, Lucien’s eyes smiled at Tristan when he met them.
“You son of a—”
Lucien gave a warning growl and tugged on Ash’s arm so that Tristan heard something pop. Eyes full of anger, and a touch of pain, Ash moaned her frustration. Her robe had slipped open in the scuffle and the moment Tristan noticed this, really noticed, so did Lucien. The lips pressed to her neck curled up into a smile and Lucien reached around to slip a hand inside the robe against her stomach.
Unable to do anything but watch, Tristan ground his teeth. He let his eyes dart away for only a moment.
“Looking for this?”
Tristan’s attention snapped back around to Lucien. Lips heavy with Ash’s blood, the boy vampire grinned at him and gave a little nod downward. He wasn’t showing Tristan his hand inside Ash’s robe but the sword at his feet.
“Damn me,” he scoffed. Knew it, should have kept the stupid gun. Fuck the consequences, because what could be worse than this?
“Worse… than now?” The boy grinned again. “I can think of a few things much, much worse.” His nose had stopped bleeding, but was still a hideous hole on his face. Tristan wondered how long it would take him to heal that, if at all. Not that he was going to let the kid leave here alive now.
In his arms, Ash whispered something that Tristan didn’t understand, but made the boy vampire chuckle. He turned his face into hers and whispered against her cheek. “Perhaps later my dear, can’t you see I’m entertaining right now.”
She went wild in his arms, thrashing and growling sounds that human vocals shouldn’t have been able to make. In the end her troubles only got her a good blow to the face that left her stunned.
“Honestly, this woman never knows when to give up.” The boy smiled all teeth. “That’s what I love about her. Don’t you?”
“You know I’m not going to let you leave here with her.”
Lucien got a curious, almost child-like look on his face. “Who says it’s her I want?”
“Blow me,” Tristan snapped back before thinking his choice of words through.
Lucien’s eyes lit up. “A bit of sink the fang and hide the weasel sounds delightful right now.”
Tristan groaned, rolling his eyes.
Lucien laughed and grabbed Ash’s breast. “If I had known you were offering to join us, I’d have made other plans. As it is now, I can only keep with plan A.”
“Right, and so this is where I ask what plan A is.”
“So glad you did. Actually, this is more like… hmm, plan D. I hadn’t expected that bitch to send you in her stead. Fucking lazy ass old bloodsucker. Ah well, all of life is but an improvisation.”
“How philosophical of you.”
Lucien grinned big, answered, “Thank you” in that fucking annoying way he had before he gave a deep grunt as he lifted and tossed Ash. She gasped as she tumbled into Tristan, knocking him into the wall, nearly landing right on top of the unconscious fae.
“Holy shit!” Tristan gasped, quickly going to his feet. He put his hand out to help Ash up. “Are you okay?”
“Tristan, look out!”
His back was to the other vampire, but he didn’t need to see what the boy was doing. He could feel it deep in his Uruwashi blood. He could feel the fire of Lucien’s power come to life.
16: Queer
THERE was a pop followed by a bright light that filled the whole room with red heat. Tristan felt the warmth on his naked flesh before his brain processed what he was seeing. Strong hands grabbed him and jerked him to the side. Tristan fell—again—with a groan, mashing his shoulder against the edge of the coffee table.
Lucien cursed in French and Tristan looked up in horror to find the sofa on fire. “Holy shit,” he whispered, “he really can make fire.” And a hell of a lot of it from the looks of it. One entire side of the sofa was already alight.
“Stop him!” Ash shrieked, pushing Tristan off her.
Panting, expression twisted in anger and eyes full of pain, Lucien darted across the room and flung open the balcony slider. Freezing air poured in, washing over Tristan’s bare skin, mixing with the sheen of sweat and he had to stifle a shiver. Lucien stepped out onto the balcony, glaring at Tristan as if he was the one that had just set the sofa on fire and it insulted the boy vampire.
The hotel alarms blared to life. Lucien jumped up onto the railing with a cat-like bounce, opened his mouth and then shut it again, having second thoughts on whatever he was going say. With a crooked smile and a flamboyant wave that ended in the middle finger, he jumped.
“Shit,” Tristan grumbled, letting go of Ash and ran out onto the balcony. The iron railing was ice cold against his flesh as he fell into it, peering down into the city streets. There was nothing below but the lights of the city and passing traffic.
“Tristan!” Ash shouted and he spun back to the room. The fae’d found his feet and the two of them were frantically beating at the flames. Sebastian was using one of the pillows that’d caught on fire. Ash was using her robe, half of the disposable cuff hanging off her right wrist.
“Dammit, Ash! Get away from the fire!” he grabbed her, yanking her back.
Sebastian never bothered looking up as he gave up on his pillow and ran out of the living room.
“Ash, you should leave too. People are going to be all over this place any minute now. You won’t be able to sleep for the day here with them snooping around.”
Sebastian appeared again and without so much as a glance their way, he attended the fire with an extinguisher.
Ash glanced at Sebastian, looking him over quickly and thinking god knew what, and then back to Tristan, nodding. “Yes. I shall find some other secure place to rest.” She stepped into him, looking up at him with worried eyes. “Be safe.”
“Go.” He gave her a kiss and then she was gone. Off into the city, nude.
“You,” he said, turning to Sebastian, “can’t be seen like that.”
Not stopping his firefighting effort, the fae flicked green eyes to him. “Mon seigneur?”
The man looked ill, like severely anemic ill. Between Ash last night and Lucien today, the man was low on fluids. And half of it stained his clothes and skin. Guess fae blood didn’t dissolve like vampire blood did. All the more reason he couldn’t be seen like that.
Fingers and foot mostly working now, but aching like a motherfucker, Tristan dove across the room to snatch up his sword. He went to Sebastian, tore the extinguisher from him and shoved the katana into his hand. “Don’t you pass out on me now. Take this, lock it up. Get yourself cleaned up before the fire team comes in here.”
A loud, persistent bang started on the suite door, accompanied by yelling that made both men jump. Tristan cursed under his breath, looking to the sofa. The fire was almost out, but that wouldn’t keep the fire personnel out of his room.
“Go!” he hissed and then flinched when something caught his eyes, making his insides roll. Tristan pointed, trying not to look again. “And take Lucien’s nose with you.”
Sebastian’s eyes grew wide and he swallowed hard. “Oui, of course.” He picked up the flesh with his bare hands, swiped both arms across the table to clear away the last drops of vampire blood that had yet to dissolve and ran into the master bedroom. The doors slammed shut behind him hard enough to shake in their frame.
Tristan’s shoulders slumped and he started to give a relieved sigh, but jumped when the front door burst open. There was a commotion of chaos as fire service piled in. Hands grabbed at him, pulling him backwards. They were too late since the fire was finally out. Tristan was ushered away, stumbling into the hallway before he realized what was happening. He gained his senses before they could drag him down the stairs. After a few long minutes of arguing with the only one who spoke passable English, he convinced them to let him back into the room. He still wasn’t sure how he managed to pull that off.
He was escorted into Sebastian’s room. One step in and he stiffened. He could smell blood.
Earthy fae blood. His jaw tightened as he gave the bed a quick once over. Thankfully, he couldn’t see it and hoped the others didn’t smell as keenly as he did. The hotel manager, Moreau came into the room just as he had plopped down.
The taller of the two firemen who’d escorted Tristan into the room turned and started to speak to Moreau in a gruff voice as the EMT shoved in past them. She had rough hands, but a nice smile as she examined Tristan. Of course, she didn’t speak any English, but after his sixth or seventh, exasperated “OK” with the little hand sign, she decided to leave him alone. She slipped past the two men deep in conversation, both clearly frustrated. Moreau looked nervous as hell, his brow sweaty. At least the alarms had finally been silenced, it was enough to give even one of those crazy Wall Street traders palpitations.
Finally Moreau put his hands up in a clear “I give up” motion and dropped them again to smack his thighs. He stepped aside, putting his back to a wall. The man he was arguing with stepped up to Tristan who was now shivering in his underwear, the adrenalin having run its course and the whole suite cold from the sliders all being propped open. He regretted not dressing earlier. Then thought of poor Ash, running the streets of Paris naked. Ok, the thought made him smile, just a little.
The man with his heavy fire gear leaned into Tristan, over him. He was trying to intimidate him with his size. Right. “Capitaine des pompiers, Gillette”, by the embroidered name on his chest, the fire chief he supposed. When Tristan looked up again, the man said something to him in that raspy voice of his.
Tristan blinked up at him, feeling numb, cold and uncaring inside. All he wanted right now was for everyone to leave. Despite his worries for Ash and his anger at Lucien, he was just plain exhausted. This time change was really kicking his ass. All he wanted was to sleep.
He glanced back at the hotel manager, Moreau, standing inside the bedroom door and jabbed a thumb towards Gillette. “He knows I can’t understand him right?”
Moreau gave a faint smile and translated, though it had a definable “I told you so” flavor to it. Gillette straightened and looked to Moreau over his shoulder. He huffed and turned away from Tristan for a moment before starting to pace the room and talking fast.
Tristan sat patiently like a good boy, for once, while Moreau and Gillette spoke. Their conversation wasn’t long, but Gillette spent most of the talk looking at Tristan. No, okay, rephrasing that—staring. Hard, like he was some disgusting criminal who fucked his wife and then murdered her just to wear her scalp as a wig. The guy had a serious beef with Tristan and he couldn’t think of why. Didn’t give a shit either. It was after the third time that Gillette looked down that Tristan realized what the guy was doing—checking out the gnarly scar Malik’s flunky left him with. A reminder that he was lucky to be alive.
Finally, their conversation was through and Moreau walked across the room to stop close to Tristan. “Yeah?” Tristan sighed. “What is it?”
Manager Moreau smiled, but it wasn’t a very nice smile. He motioned to Gillette standing very close behind him. “Monsieur Gillette,” he started and the man behind him cleared his throat. Moreau stiffened and made a sour face that only Tristan saw. “Capitaine Gillette, would like to know what caused the fire, sir, if you could explain.”
Tristan ran a hand through his hair and sighed heavy. “Yeah, sure.”
Slumped forward with his elbows on his knees, Tristan fed them a bullshit story of how he had lit candles, which there were several in the room, and how he got over-amorous with his lover and they knocked several over, but didn’t notice right away. He was in his boxers. Visuals always help validate stories. And since Gillette spoke no English, the once over-exuberant manager helped translate. It was a fucking mess of a conversation, but he thought Moreau did well. Might actually have to buy the guy a thank-you drink.
They talked for nearly half an hour while the other fire service went about their business in the living room. Considering he was tired, angry about Lucien and worried about Ash, Tristan thought he behaved himself remarkably. They asked, he answered; they asked, he answered and with as little snarkiness as possible. And despite his extreme cooperation, that big guy with the frowning mustache remained stiff and closed off.
He wasn’t buying Tristan’s story.
“Does he have a problem with me?” Tristan asked, pointing a finger at the fire chief. The other man just stared back at him, frowning and eyes narrowed.
Moreau gave a start and looked to the gruff man. “Uh, I—I don’t—monsieur?”
Tristan stood and Moreau took a step back like he knew he would. Gillette crossed his arms over his chest. Tristan adjusted his weight to one foot, the one that didn’t have residual ache from what the kitsune did. Gillette did the same, stared a moment and then lifting his chin, mumbled something.
Moreau frowned, looking a bit confused. “Monsieur, he asked, if I may, what does that mean?” He pointed.
Tristan looked down, but he knew what he was motioning to. Shortly after ending his relationship with Malik, he decided to go out and get a tattoo, his first. Hindsight, maybe it was a bad idea to permanently ink himself with his family name on his forearm, but he felt he’d earned the right after his trail by fangs. Under the elegant lines of kanji that outlined his deadly surname was a scar—a memento, one of many he was sure he would carry with him to his death. Proof that he survived a vampire.
He ground his teeth for a moment and then looked up again, to Gillette. “It’s my name,” he said. “My surname.”
Staring back at him, Gillette grumbled again. Moreau translated, “You do not look Japanese, he says.”
Now that wasn’t entirely true, was it? He may have been a muscular six-three with deep blue eyes, but there was a faint tilt to their shape. And while his hair was thick, sometimes a little dry and rough, and slightly wavy, it was deep, deep black. The running theory had always been that he looked like his father, whoever the hell he was, but had just enough of his mother in him to not be human. She was the Uruwashi.
“My mother. She’s dead. Thanks for asking.” Sure, he felt a little bad being a dick to Moreau. Only one person deserved so much rudeness, but Tristan was getting tired of the game.
Gillette mumbled something and Moreau let out a long breath. “And that?” he said, motioning to Tristan’s upper chest, leg and arm where there were fresh red teeth marks—not to mention the great big healed scar on his stomach that Gillette kept staring at.
“Look. I’m tired. I’m fucking freezing my balls off and I rather like my balls, okay? So if you and those dudes in the other room are done, I’d like to get to bed now.”
“Yes, of course. Please, give me a moment.” Moreau turned to Gillette and they spoke again for several minutes. This time they were definitely arguing. From what Tristan could tell, just from their body language, Moreau was on his side—whatever his side was—and Gillette just didn’t like him. Moreau was defending Tristan.
Yeah, he owed the man a drink. If anything, a big tip when they left.
“Monsieur,” the tired looking manager started and sighed, bowing his head. “I apologize, monsieur, but he insists that you vacate the room. We of course would give you other accommodations matching this size. There is one more apartment suite that is fr—”
“No fucking way,” he said, before he could stop himself; it wasn’t Moreau’s fault. He glared at Gillette as he finished the rest of what he had to say. “I have no problem staying here. It’s a serious pain in the ass to move. No.” Oh yeah and I have a trunk full of dangerous, and most likely illegal weapons I don’t want you to find. God, he really didn’t want to go to jail in a foreign country. It was bad enough being locked up in a country he knew.
Still smiling that forced smile, the manager had a brief exchange with Gillette. With another defeated sigh, he turned back to Tristan. “He will agree to allow your continued occupation in this suite.”
“Great. If you don’t mind now—”
“Monsieur,” the manager b
utted in and then looked embarrassed for it. “He requires a full inspection and then he will approve your stay.”
Tristan groaned. Sebastian had plenty of time to lock up the unmentionables and hopefully clean the blood off himself before he was found. He hoped. “Fine.”
The manager relayed the message and Gillette started out of the room with a gruff “hmm”. Tristan stifled a sigh as he followed them into the living room and giving the whole room a quick glance, searching out these candles he used as his alibi. The decorative candles on the side table near the balcony and desk were untouched, never lit. He winced, hoping they hadn’t noticed the tiny detail and stepped around the few emergency personnel that were left. He caught a glimpse of the coffee table, now shoved up against the far wall next to the balcony slider. Relief filled him to see that the wicks of those candles were burnt—probably from that huge fireball Lucien threw at the sofa. At least part of his story was validated, but he still didn’t understand why the vampire threw his fireball at the sofa and not Tristan. The carpet where the kitsune he’d cut in half and bleed out was dark, but it looked more like wine than blood. Too bad he didn’t have a bottle and set of glasses sitting out.
Gillette suddenly stopped in the middle of the room so that Tristan almost ran into the back of him. The Frenchman gave him a look, frowning. He didn’t like Tristan one bit. Didn’t believe his bullshit story either—probably had a little to do with his not liking the American.
Tristan raised his eyebrows at the older man in question, completely comfortable with his near nakedness, albeit on the cold side. They stared at each other for a long moment as a cold, condescending smile took over Tristan’s features. He was too tired, too weary to behave himself much longer. Gillette opened his mouth to speak, but before the word formed a loud bang sounded from inside the master bedroom. Tristan flinched even as he tried schooling his face to neutral and failed horribly. Gillette gave him a nasty look and stomped for the bedroom, mumbling to the manager.
Bete Noire Page 20
